39. Isolde
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
ISOLDE
I solde’s back burned as she struggled to her feet. Hot blood soaked into her skirt, but she could feel the wounds knitting themselves closed already. She staggered out of the alleyway, through puddles of blood from the men who lay dead, clutching the wall for support.
Bastian.
She had to find Bastian.
A few stray villagers bolted past, some soaked in blood, their eyes wide with fear. The screaming had quieted, at least, but instead the streets echoed with pained sobs.
Isolde knew she ought to stop and help the humans. People staggered by with blood streaming down their faces, clutching mangled limbs to their chests and dragging ruined legs behind them.
But all she could think about was finding Bastian.
She felt so human herself right then. She felt like one of them, frightened and injured and going rapidly into shock, and all she wanted was to feel safe. To feel warm and cherished and protected.
To feel Bastian’s arms around her.
Her heart still pounded in her chest like a terrified bird beating its wings against the bars of a cage. She could still feel the phantom weight of the Wolf’s paw on her spine. The back of her neck still burned with the heat of its breath.
And all she could think was:
I love him. I love him. I love him.
She might be immortal, but she realized now with piercing clarity that did not mean her time was infinite.
It would be fucking foolish of us not to do something about it if you want me, too—not in spite of the fact that you’re immortal and I’m not, but because of it.
Isolde made it back to the square where she’d last seen him. He could be anywhere in the village by now—could be hurt, like the humans, bleeding somewhere with no Vampire healing and no Aggie to mend him. Panic began to claw its way up her throat?—
“ Bastian! ”
His name tore out of her on a sob as she spotted him through a crowd of people, where he knelt over a bleeding human. At the sound of her voice, his head snapped up.
And then he was running.
He bolted across the square toward Isolde, faster than she’d ever seen him move. Isolde broke into a run, too, and when she flung herself into his arms, he staggered back with a grunt.
“Are you alright?” he asked, crushing her against him, his nose buried in her hair. “Are you hurt?”
“I’m sorry,” Isolde sobbed. She clung to his neck, desperate to feel him, warm and alive beneath her hands. “All those things I said before—I’m sorry. I didn’t mean them. I was frightened?—”
“I know,” Bastian interrupted. “I understand. It’s alright, Isolde.”
Isolde pried herself away from him, pulling back just far enough to look him in the eyes.
“I do want you,” she promised him. “I don’t care that the time we have together is limited to the span of your mortal life.
I don’t care what comes after for me, if I have to keep on living without you.
” She clutched his face in her hands, swiping at the tears that slipped down his cheeks with her thumbs.
“I just want you, Bastian, for whatever time we have. I?—”
I love you, she’d meant to say.
But Bastian didn’t let her get the words out. He crushed his mouth against hers and kissed her like it was the last thing he’d ever do.
Isolde didn’t know how they made it back to the forge—was only vaguely aware when they staggered through the door, their mouths still fused in that searing kiss.
Bastian’s hands were all over her, roaming from her chest to her hips to her ass like he couldn’t feel enough of her, like he needed all of her, all at once.
“Bastian,” she whimpered, her core pulsing with need as he backed her up against the workbench.
His mouth broke away from hers, gliding hungrily along the curve of her jaw, down her throat to lick along the tops of her breasts.
She pushed her hips forward, seeking friction, and felt the hard press of his cock through his trousers. “Bastian, I need?—”
She broke off on a gasp as Bastian seized her by the hips, flipping her around to bend her over the workbench. One hand slid up her thigh, hiking her skirt with it.
And then he froze. He went completely, utterly still behind her.
“What is this?” His voice was low and cold. Lethal. “The Wolf did this to you?”
The claw marks on her back. Isolde had completely forgotten. She could feel that they were nearly healed by now, but the blood, her shredded dress…
“Yes,” she whispered.
All at once, the panic returned. The memory of the blinding pain, the iciness of the cobblestones against her cheek as the beast pinned her down, the certainty that the next breath would be her last…
Bastian’s fingertips brushed her neck, pulling her back to the present as he swept her hair aside. She heard the metallic slide of a blade being unsheathed and jerked around, startling at the sight of the dagger in Bastian’s hand.
“What—” she began, trying to turn. Bastian only braced his thighs against the backs of hers to keep her in place.
“Hold still,” he said, and despite the knife he held, despite the way she was trapped against the bench, the sudden gentleness of his voice stole away all her alarm.
All this time, ever since she’d been turned, Isolde had needed the knowledge that she was stronger than the men she fed from. She never let anyone get close—not unless she knew she had the upper hand. Unless she was in complete control.
But Bastian… Bastian was just as strong as she was. Stronger than her, maybe.
And yet Isolde felt safe with him. She didn’t balk at the thought of him holding her life in his hands.
Bastian had saved her, and sustained her, and stood beside her, unflinching, even when it cost him the people who saved him.
So Isolde relinquished control. She relaxed against his hold, savoring the strength of his thighs against the backs of hers and the tender grasp of his hand on her hip.
Bastian lowered the blade to her back, and with precise, careful slices, began to cut away the fabric of her dress.
Isolde held her breath as he peeled the bloodied fabric away—not out of fear, but in anticipation.
Cool air kissed her spine, chased by the heat of Bastian’s fingers as he trailed them from the base of her neck, down to the very top of her wound.
Slowly, dragging his hands along her skin, he pushed the sleeves of her dress down her arms, baring her from the hips up.
His touch moved to her sides next, dancing over the outer curves of her breasts as he trailed his fingers down and gripped her waist.
If she’d been holding her breath before, now she could do nothing but gasp as she felt Bastian’s lips brush over the tender skin alongside her wound.
Just as she’d pressed kisses to the scar on his shoulder, he kissed hers, careful not to touch the tenderest parts where her flesh hadn’t knitted itself back together yet.
He worked his way slowly downward, all the way from the top of the wound to her hip, where it ended.
Only when he’d kissed every inch of her ruined skin did he lift her up, turning her back around.
His gaze found hers as he leaned down, hooking his hands behind her thighs, and lifted her onto the workbench.
The remains of her dress fell away with the motion, leaving her bare but for the empty sheaths still strapped around her thighs.
Isolde’s core was dripping, wetness pooling beneath her where she sat. She reached for Bastian, breathless and desperate, but he shifted out of her reach. A frustrated noise slipped from her throat—and quickly turned to a whimper when she saw the way his gaze roamed over her.
Hungry and dark, his eyes raked down her body. They caught on the hardened peaks of her breasts, the swells of her hips, before fastening on the glistening wetness between her spread thighs. Bastian’s nostrils flared, and his exhale came out on a groan.
Reaching up with one hand, Bastian grasped the collar of his shirt and yanked it over his head in one smooth movement. Then it was Isolde’s turn to stare, her gaze darting to the hard, rippling muscles of his torso.
“I should have been there,” Bastian rasped, closing the distance between them once more. He notched his hips into the space between Isolde’s thighs, his thumbs caressing between her breasts as he cupped her ribs in his hands. “I should have been at your side, facing down the Wolf with you.”
“It’s alright,” Isolde whispered. “I’m okay, Bastian. We’re both okay.”
Bastian leaned in, brushing his lips against Isolde’s cheekbone.
The new position brought the smooth skin of his neck close to Isolde’s mouth, and as Bastian inhaled against her temple, so did she.
She could smell the rich, hot blood pumping beneath the surface of his skin, could already practically taste it.
Her fangs slid free, her mouth beginning to water as she dipped her head closer to graze her lips against the vein in Bastian’s neck.
He moaned at the feeling, pressing himself even closer to her. His hands tightened on her waist, pulling her more snugly against him.
“Bastian.” She wound her arms around his neck, burying her face against his skin. “Bastian, I…”
He tilted his head to the side, baring his throat to her. “Feed from me, Isolde.”
That was all the encouragement Isolde needed. It felt more natural than breathing, sinking her fangs into the thick, pulsing vein of his neck. His blood flowed over her tongue, hot and rich like liquid gold, and Isolde knew she’d never be able to stomach human blood again.
Isolde drank and drank, gulping him down. The perfect, intoxicating taste of him was all she knew. His hands on her thighs—her stomach, her sensitive nipples—were all she could feel. Bastian’s groans of pleasure as she lapped at his neck were the only sounds she ever cared to hear.